


Sleeping the Demons Away

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Underage, Pre-Series, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Aramis and Porthos meet, they are young and heartbroken. The first time Aramis and Porthos meet, it is in the Court of Miracles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping the Demons Away

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I just want all the fic of them meeting when their younger and then ~meeting again~ .Favorite trope to abuse.   
> Anyway, it's been a while since I was able to sit down and write something, so trying to squeak out of a bit of a writer's block with this. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Please note that this fic deals with both Aramis and Porthos being underaged by modern day standards. Aramis in this is seventeen and Porthos is around fifteen-ish. The sex itself is not explicit but by nature of it, there is some implied sex from when they are both younger than their listed ages, as well as some possible dubious consent. If that squicks you out, turn back now.

Somehow, he hadn’t expected the Court to smell quite so putrid. He can’t exactly say what he expected, but he hadn’t really anticipated the Court having a distinct smell – a scent of human desperation and hopelessness. He’d known, perhaps, deep down. He’d known. It hadn’t stopped him – perhaps, in a way, he thought he belonged in that moment. Desperate and hopeless. He knows that too well now. 

It certainly puts a damper on his own determination, though. It doesn’t help matters that the first moment he sets his foot in the Court, the banging starts up. His head hasn’t stopped aching in days, the thrumming of desire and longing and pain pressing up against the inside of his skull, the pressure of all the tears he can’t cry despite his best efforts – he never was good at crying. He never got the hang of it. He feels hollow. The headache is trying to leak out of him, trying to push free of him until he is nothing more than an empty husk. That would be preferable to this unbearable feeling. He is seventeen and young and stupid and doesn’t know anything except the loss and heartbreak, pain and suffering – he has scoured, searched, begged for any given clue or thought of Isabelle, but it’s been almost a year since her disappearance and things have come to a complete stand-still. 

The Church far from his grasp now, at least for the time being, Aramis sinks towards the other end of his own depravity. There are men in masks all around him, children shying away into the shadows. They bang weapons and sticks upon support beams, walls, pans, anything they can hold. He swallows down thickly, wonders if he’s taken a wrong turn. He is unwelcomed but it is not the first time Aramis has been unwelcomed somewhere, it is not the first time he’s stepped forward despite that. 

He’s heard the rumors of the Court, although he has never set foot inside it before today, has taken months to work up the courage to do so. His heart is heavy with thoughts of Isabelle, but his hands are shaking with other thoughts. He’d heard the rumors – prostitutes that worked in the Court, offering certain – requests in conjunction with the proclivities of the particular customer. 

The banging, though, the insistent clapping of metal upon metal around him. There are harsh eyes peering out through the masks – he is unwelcomed. He wonders if the banging is a prelude to an attack. He wonders if he should defend himself. His hand itches, almost goes for the dagger strapped to his side—

Before he can lay a hand on it, someone grabs him firmly by his forearm and jerks him hard into a side alley. He lets out a yelp of surprise and stumbles, his hair falling into his eyes and nearly crashing into a wall for his troubles. The wall is cool against his cheek when he presses up against it, his arm twisted up at his back. It hurts but there is a pressure there, something welcoming in being hurt – at least it is something to feel. 

“Don’t draw your weapon,” someone hisses beside him, his grip on his arm tight, “What, are you a goddamn idiot? You want to get killed?” 

Aramis looks back behind his shoulder to see a – boy? A young man, possibly slightly younger than Aramis himself, looking out towards the mouth of the alleyway. It’s a cramped little space, hardly any room to move around and shadowed between two decrepit buildings. He grips Aramis’ arm tight and Aramis can’t think to shrug away from his hold. He stares at his profile – young, but hardened from undoubtedly living in the Court. His nose is cute – that’s his first thought, really, as he focuses. It’s rounded, a small bump over his face, lips parted in thought as he looks out at the sounds. 

“This way,” the young man says, jerks him hard from the wall and grips him tight as he pulls him down the alleyway. The banging slowly fades away but the hum of Aramis’ headache doesn’t subside. He stares at the young man’s back – slightly shorter than him, but his hands and feet large – he’ll grow taller, perhaps. He’s too thin, needs some food, but there’s the roundness of past baby fat, picked dry from lack of nourishment. There’re whispers of muscles beneath the loose-fitting tunic he wears, the long shreds of threadbare cloak around his shoulders that dusts across the ground as he moves. 

They weave in and out of alleyways and Aramis starts to wonder if he’s going to be robbed or murdered for his daring. He wonders how badly it will hurt. It will be something – at least he will feel something before he dies, even if it is pain. He isn’t afraid. Perhaps he’ll die. Perhaps it’ll all end. 

“Wait,” he says and jerks his hand back. The young man stops, turns to look at him. “I,” Aramis begins, swallows down thickly and says, “I’m fine. Are you going to…?” 

“I’m making sure you’re not about to get stabbed,” the young man interrupts with a snap and looks frustrated. “What, you think I’m going to hurt you?” 

Aramis mulls this over, looks at the way his shoulders hunch up, how defensive he looks just from his stance, his angry eyes. There is a fierceness to the question when he asks it, but a means to hide the thread of pain laced between the words. Aramis can hear it. 

He says, “No. You would have already, I think.” He pauses and waits for the young man to say something. Something softens in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. So Aramis adds, “I’m Aramis.” 

He looks at the young man expectantly. But instead of offering his own name, he only looks away and looks around where he’s dragged Aramis off to. “Why the hell are you even here, anyway? You were about to get yourself killed.” 

“For what?” 

“You were going to draw your dagger,” he says and gestures towards his side. “Never do that. Not unless you’re attacked first.” He looks at him again and asks, “What were you doing here? You aren’t someone from here.” 

“Is it so obvious?” Aramis asks, looking down at himself. He didn’t think he was that conspicuous. 

“Your clothes are too new,” he answers and Aramis feels a pang of guilt – these are some of his oldest clothes in his wardrobe, not worn for years in favor of fancier fabrics and colors, wanting to choose something ordinary and downplaying his presence in the Court in search of prostitutes. He shifts a little, uncomfortable. 

“Oh,” he says. He swallows down and says, “I was… I was looking for something.” 

“Who?” the boy asks. He leans against the wall, crosses his arms – staring at him, utterly curious now. His eyes, once Aramis looks past the anger, are very soft looking. Almost gentle. Like someone who doesn’t want to be so rough but has no choice. 

“Oh,” Aramis repeats, softer this time, embarrassed. “Um – was _that_ so obvious?” 

The young man shrugs. “Why else would anybody come here if not for the whores?” 

Aramis flinches. He’s right, of course, but it’s still a little jarring to hear it said so casually. “… I heard – that there were certain… men here who—”

He trails off and feels foolish for it. If he’s decided on what he wants, he might as well admit to it. There is care and concealment outside the Court’s walls, but he’s heard the rumors – within the Court of Miracles, no one cares. He can be depraved. He can sin. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to complete his thought because the young man before him perks up, one eyebrow lifting. “You want to fuck a man.” 

He again says it far too blasé and casual, but this time Aramis doesn’t flinch but rather tips his chin up. He shrugs, going for nonchalant. He laces his fingers together behind his back, steadies his breath. His shoulder aches from where his arm got twisted up before, pressed up against the wall. 

“You should have come in from the other entrance,” the boy dismisses, looking around with a sigh. “That’s where all the whores are. You’ll only find the cripples and thieves here.” 

“Which are you?” Aramis asks, politely enough. 

There’s a sardonic little twist to the boy’s mouth when he answers, “Thief.” 

“Are you any good?” Aramis asks when he means to ask where he should go to get to the prostitutes. He leans back against the wall opposite where the boy’s leaning. Aramis watches him as he crosses his arms, huddles beneath his threadbare clothes. Aramis wonders if he should offer his cloak or if that would be an insult. 

“I’m the best,” is the answer, a tilt of his head, the light catching in his eyes to give the falsehood of pride. He looks tired. “Could be the king here one day, you know.” 

“How does that work?” Aramis returns before he can think better of it – he’d never heard of the concept of a King in the Court of Miracles, but it’d make sense – if it’s a court, of sorts. “Are you related to the current king?” 

It seems to be the wrong question because a flash of pain shatters through the boy’s eyes and he looks away once more. His jaw stiffens up as he grits his teeth, shoulders tensing towards his ears. He scuffs his boots against the ground and Aramis can see the flap of a worn-in sole. The boy needs new boots. He’ll be freezing come wintertime. 

“Nah,” he answers. “It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t matter.”

Aramis lets the matter drop, but only because there’s no mistaking the look on his face now – he’s picked at an open wound. He doesn’t apologize, although the urge is there. 

“Why do you want to fuck a man?” the boy asks after a short moment. 

Aramis’ smile is a brittle little thing, the phantom look of some grasping sense of bravado, when he says, “Why does anyone?” 

The young man eyes him. He gives him such a look, from boot to head and Aramis tries not to shiver under the scrutiny. He isn’t yet sure if he’s going to be robbed from this self-proclaimed thief. He brought along hefty coin in his purse for the sake of persuading a man to bed him. He wasn’t sure how much it would cost – he hardly had anyone to ask regarding it. 

“Be sure to be the one who fucks them,” the young man says, abruptly, and looks away again. “They aren’t that gentle here.” 

Aramis purses his lips – doesn’t speak to the desire of wanting to be fucked. They stand in a stilled silence and Aramis’ hand strays to his side, touching at his purse to make sure it’s still there in his pocket. He looks down at his boots – too shiny, too new, despite the fact that he’s owned them for at least a year now. 

When he looks up again, the young man is watching him – watching the hand at his side. 

He says, “I’ll suck your cock for what coin you’ve got there.” 

It is abrupt enough that Aramis blinks once, then flushes – and hates himself for it. He’s shaking his head before he can even realize he’s doing so. “That’s – no.”

He shrugs. His eyes haven’t left Aramis’ purse. The words are casual but his eyes are desperate. “Okay. Then I’ll let you fuck me. Doesn’t matter.” 

“No, I—” he fumbles, brow furrowing, clenches his jaw. “… No.” 

The young man doesn’t seem too put-out at the rejection – just looks a little sad as he eyes the purse-strings with no small amount of longing, tinted by a quiet kind of anger, a hatred. Aramis doesn’t know if the hatred is directed towards him but he finds, instantly, that he wants to correct it. 

“Oh,” the boy says, and then shrugs – forced nonchalance but Aramis can see the anger in his eyes as soon as it blooms there, sudden and sure. “Right. Well. You should know most of the whores here look like me. So, if you want one who’s—”

“What?” Aramis interrupts, heart spiking up into his throat. “No – no, it’s not that. I don’t mind that you’re— No. Not that it’s a matter of ‘minding’ or not,” Aramis mumbles, flustered, completely out of his element. He is usually far more articulate than this. He is usually so much more charming. He takes in a shuddering breath and says, “You helped me. Let me pay you for that.” 

The boy doesn’t move. Aramis unhooks his purse from inside his pocket, fumbles a little and retrieves a few coins. “I’m sorry – I’d give you more, but… But I need to be able to pay the man who—”

The boy holds out his hand to the coins, lets Aramis place them in his palm. He draws his hand back, looking at them – studying them. 

“Is that… Is that enough to get food?” Aramis asks. 

“Yeah,” he answers, quietly, and doesn’t thank him as he pockets the coins. He also won’t look him in the eye. The he says, “Follow that road and you’ll find the whores. Don’t touch at the pocket you’ve got your coins in – that’s a tell for anyone who wants to rob you. But just be mindful of the weight.” 

Aramis opens his mouth to speak, to answer, but the boy just flushes, looks ashamed, and turns away. 

Before Aramis can answer, he disappears down the alleyway and is gone, leaving Aramis alone. 

 

-

 

He doesn’t search out the prostitutes, in the end. He’s too frantic after that first day and retreats. A three days later, though, he returns – this time with a bag. As soon as he sets foot in the Court and the banging starts up again, reigniting his headache, he wonders if he’s made the right decision. He doesn’t know his name. He could be anywhere in the Court. And yet – he can’t exactly walk up to someone, ask them if they know of a boy with a cute nose and sad eyes. He hopes, desperately, that maybe the young man will find him instead. 

He wanders around uselessly for a while until he finds the alleyway from before and moves down it. It’s as good a place as any. He leans against the wall, staring up at the sky between the cracks in the decrepit buildings. Maybe he’s made a mistake. 

And then he hears footsteps. His heart seizes up and he wonders if this time he’ll be robbed, if this time he’ll be killed. Or maybe he’ll find someone to fuck. Maybe this time he can make his way towards the prostitutes. He will, he tells himself. It’s just a matter of resolving this matter, first.

When he looks up, he breathes a sigh of relief when he recognizes the boy from before. 

“I heard the pots,” he says, tilting his head towards where the banging filters through the narrow alleyways. 

“Were you hoping it was me?” Aramis asks, with more audacity than he feels. He tries to smile – he tries to be charming. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much – why it matters so much to him that he finds the boy’s approval. 

The boy shrugs. “When outsiders come here, they’re easy to rob.” 

Aramis shakes his head, doesn’t let himself feel disappointed, and kneels down, digging through his bag. And then he holds out the bundle of food he’d brought. The young man stares at him, frowning. His eyes are sad today, like before. He looks hungry. 

“… I can get my own food,” he mumbles.

Aramis gets to his feet, approaches him, and holds out the food silently. He waits. He doesn’t take the food back when he reaches out his hands, but he does pause as he looks at him. He asks, “Can I know your name?” 

The boy pauses. Looks at the food then up at him. His face twists up – suspicious, but hopeful, perhaps – and then says, “It’s Porthos.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis says, tastes the name – smiles a bit. “It’s nice.”

“It’s a name,” Porthos dismisses, takes the food, and steps back a few paces. He looks at Aramis, warily, and then down at the food – unwrapping it to see what Aramis has brought. Not much – some bread one day from stale, a lump of cheese, an apple. 

“It’s yours,” Aramis says, then sits down heavily against the wall. 

Porthos still looks suspicious, but also can’t say no to food right in front of him. Aramis watches as he practically inhales it. He sits down across from him against the opposite wall, stretching his legs out. They’re almost close enough for their feet to touch in the narrow space. 

Porthos breathes out when he finishes, wipes at his mouth, licks at his fingertips. He still looks hungry and Aramis hates that he didn’t have more to spare. 

“Did you fuck your man?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis shakes his head. “I went home after you left,” he says. He fidgets. “I keep – I told myself I wanted it. But it’s—”

“It’s not that different,” Porthos says, “being with a man or a woman. The… everything involved is different but in the end it’s never going to be nice.” 

Something twists up inside of Aramis – remembers how _wonderful_ it felt to hold Isabelle, to be in love and holding, longing for her – 

Oh God, but don’t think of her now, he reminds himself.

“It can be nice,” he mumbles out in protest.

Porthos shrugs. 

“Have you, then?” Aramis asks, can’t help his curiosity, dives quickly away from the longing he feels snagging inside of him when he thinks of Isabelle. “With a man?” 

Porthos picks at the bundle the food was wrapped in, searching out crumbs. Then he tosses it back at Aramis. He shrugs. “It happened a long time ago. I don’t remember it much.” 

Aramis frowns, looks down. 

“My friend, Flea – she’s not gentle, either, but it’s better with her,” Porthos offers. “She’s not gentle but she doesn’t hurt you, either.” 

“Probably because you’re friends,” Aramis offers, and his stomach twists up as he thinks of Isabelle. He misses her, God, how he misses her – and how disgusted and ashamed would she be now if she were to know where he was, what he wanted, that he could discuss this so casually with Porthos. 

“I guess,” Porthos says with another shrug. He picks at a hole in his trousers, worn thin at his knee so that Aramis can see the skin underneath, the hint of a few scars that never healed properly. 

“What was it like?” Aramis asks. “With a man?”

Porthos shifts, lifts one shoulder and drops it down, expression closing off. “I don’t know. He wanted it. I wanted it. Dunno really who he was and I haven’t seen him since. That’s usually how it is around here. Maybe he died. Maybe he was like you.” 

Aramis looks down. 

“Why’d you come back?” Porthos asks. “Why’d you give me food?” 

“I wanted—” Aramis starts and then breaks off, can’t articulate what it is he wanted. He wanted to see him? It feels foolish to say so. He was worried? He’s too kind for his own good? He doesn’t know. 

“I can’t really give you anything,” Porthos says. “I used that coin you gave me already.” 

“I just – I wanted to,” Aramis settles on. “Is that alright?”

“Food is food,” Porthos says. He looks down, mournfully – looks ashamed. Aramis wonders if he’s hurt his pride too much – and yet Porthos is still here. He taps his boot, very lightly, against Porthos’. 

Porthos looks up at him and Aramis offers him a small smile. “I like talking to you.”

Porthos snorts, loudly. “It’s hardly a fun conversation. Instead of asking me about your men, you could just figure it out yourself.” 

Aramis laughs, on the edge of self-deprecation. “I suppose. You must think me a fool.”

“A bit,” Porthos decides, but then he’s smiling at him – and that. That is something else entirely – his entire face completely changes. He looks gentler, rounder, simpler. He looks so young, his eyes less sad. 

“Is it… alright?” Aramis asks. “If I visit you?”

“Dunno why you’d want to,” Porthos says, looking around. “You can’t make friends in your own neighborhood?” 

Aramis shrugs. 

Porthos looks down and shrugs, but there’s still a whisper of that smile at the edges of his mouth. “… I don’t mind. I usually hang around this spot, most days.” 

“Okay,” Aramis says, feeling warmer. 

 

-

 

Aramis comes back the next day, with more food. He doesn’t hesitate as he makes his way back towards the alleyway – and Porthos is there waiting. They grin at each other a bit when they see each other, and Aramis feels young and foolish – watches the way Porthos lowers his eyes towards the ground after a moment. He wishes he wouldn’t – he wishes Porthos didn’t always duck his head, as if bowing. It doesn’t suit him. 

“Here,” Aramis says, as he moves close to Porthos’ side, offers his bundle of food. His shoulder bumps his as Porthos’ takes it, looks up at him.

Porthos doesn’t thank him, but the gratefulness is etched in the line of his shoulders as he unwraps the food and eats it like a dying man. He wipes his mouth once he’s done, licks up the remains of crumbs and grease, and then offers the bundle back towards Aramis, who tucks it into his bag. 

They smile at each other. Aramis feels a little giddy, doesn’t know why or how – just keeps chasing that feeling. The wall is cool against his back. He feels flushed. 

If he could, he’d bring Porthos more than food – fresh clothes, a means to have a bath. Porthos looks a little cleaner today – likely cleaned himself off at the Seine – and there’s a little color to his cheeks, a brightness to his eye as he looks up at Aramis. 

“No whores today?” Porthos asks.

“None today,” Aramis agrees, breathes out in the space between them. “Your endorsement has left me a little ambivalent, it seems.” 

Porthos’ nose twitches up as he frowns, thoughtfully. Then he shrugs. 

“They’d have robbed you, anyway,” Porthos decides. “You can find a woman outside that’d be more expensive but at least she’d be cleaner, and not steal from you afterwards.” 

“I guess,” Aramis says. He looks up at the sky. “I’ve always – I can’t help but think of… well.” 

Porthos shifts when Aramis doesn’t finish the thought. They stand in a still silence and then Porthos sways into his space a bit, presses his shoulder to his own. He’s only slightly shorter than Aramis, but bulkier, a weight to him despite it all. He’ll be strong when he’s older. 

“I can never love another woman,” Aramis settles on, feels his heart twist up. 

Porthos tilts his head, looks up at the sky, thoughtfully. Then he says, “Fucking someone isn’t about love.” 

“It can be,” Aramis protests. 

Porthos doesn’t look convinced, making a humming dismissal. 

“You can – it’s an expression of love,” Aramis insists, desperate. “And – and when you love someone and a child—”

Porthos turns his head and stares at him. Aramis fumbles to a stop, his hands shaking. Porthos says, cold and suddenly so far away, “Not every child is created from love.” 

He knows where he is, he knows where he stands in this court, and yet Aramis is shaking his head, desperate – so desperate. “Even if – even if a child is born without love between the parents – that child is loved by God, they’re—”

Aramis stops when Porthos’ face twists up in pain and he withdraws. 

“Wait,” he whispers, desperate, hand shaking when he reaches out to grasp him – to pull him back in, to keep him from leaving, _why must everyone always leave—_

But the movement is too possessive, too constricting, and Porthos withdraws all the more. Turns and moves from him. Presses his back up against the wall opposite Aramis. Aramis almost steps to him but Porthos is angry, rattled, his shoulders lifting up towards his ears as he hunches into himself. 

“It isn’t that simple,” Porthos snaps out, pained.

“I believe it,” Aramis insists. “I have – I have to believe that.” 

It’s all he had left. It’s all he could ever have—

He presses a hand to his face, breathes out sharply, doesn’t cry because he can’t cry but the urge is there. He misses _her_. He misses their child. He misses—

He breathes out, watery, and straightens. He fixes his hair, fumbles. “Forgive me.” 

Porthos doesn’t look at him, looks anywhere but at him. Aramis swallows down thickly, tries to summon up the right words, the right things to say – can’t articulate why he needs Porthos’ forgiveness, why he needs his understanding – but he needs it. Even in this, he needs. 

They stay like that in a long silence, awkward and uncertain. Aramis begins to fidget. He looks at Porthos and then away again.

Porthos stares at the wall opposite them. “You really think it can be about love?” 

“Yes,” Aramis answers.

“Then why are you trying to fuck a man?” Porthos asks, and doesn’t sound angry, doesn’t sound accusing. He turns his head, staring at him. “Why are you even spending time with me – why are you giving me food?”

“It’s—” Aramis begins. 

“You want to fuck me after all?” Porthos asks. “I don’t mind.” 

“But—”

“Go on,” Porthos says, “Against the wall.” And it’s commanding enough that Aramis scrambles backwards, presses against the wall. Porthos moves towards him, touches at his belt and pulls it forward enough to slip his hand beneath – touches at Aramis’ cock, shamefully already half-hard just from the thought of it. It moves so suddenly, happens so suddenly – and Aramis can’t breathe. 

“Oh,” Aramis breathes out, because this is hardly the first time but it’s different to feel a callused hand, large and masculine, against him. Isabelle had always been—

He clenches his eyes shut. Don’t think about her now. 

“You don’t have to pay me,” Porthos says. 

“It isn’t – that isn’t why I’m here,” Aramis whispers out, begs for him to understand. “I’m not – I don’t want to use you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Porthos dismisses.

“Of course it does,” Aramis protests. 

Aramis looks at him, breathes out when Porthos’ hand shifts, palm dragging across his cock, coaxing it to harden in his trousers. He leans forward as if to kiss him but Porthos leans his head back, sinks down onto his knees and undoes his clothes.

“What – here?” Aramis asks, pants out. 

“Nobody cares,” Porthos dismisses. “It’s as private in here as you’ll get. His fingers curl around his cock, coax it to full hardness – a process that takes very little time. Aramis shivers. It’s been long enough since he last did this. He looks down at Porthos, kneeling in the dirt and looking up at him. 

“Wait,” Aramis starts to say but then Porthos drags his mouth over his cock and suckles. He gasps out a breath – doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know what to do or say or think. All he knows is that it feels good but doesn’t look good – he holds out his hands, touches Porthos’ shoulders. He whispers, “Wait.” 

Porthos draws back, looks up at him. 

“It doesn’t—” Aramis starts, tries to collect his words. “You don’t – you can be standing.” 

Porthos stares at him, hand around his cock, his other hand braced at his thigh. Aramis shivers, flushes – feels ashamed to react so strongly to this, reassured only from seeing the tenting of Porthos’ trousers when he stands up. 

“Can I kiss you?” Aramis asks. 

Porthos considers, ducks his head as Aramis reaches out and starts undoing his clothes enough to draw out his cock, too, half-hard in his palm. He sucks out a brief gasp, tilts his hips forward against Aramis’ touch. 

“… If you want,” Porthos settles on and Aramis leans in to catch his mouth in a kiss. 

It is fumbling and awkward – they are both too young, too inexperienced despite it all. Porthos grips him too loose, Aramis grips too tight. Their cocks slide together and they both shudder and gasp. Aramis bites down on Porthos’ lip accidentally and he hisses out his displeasure. They are jerky, awkward angles. But it’s better, Aramis thinks, if it’s like this rather than with one of the prostitutes. Porthos kisses him gently. Up close, he can see how sad his eyes are, truly. 

Porthos shimmies his hips forward, drags his cock against Aramis’ hand wrapping around both of them to stroke them off. Aramis gasps, pants out, chest heaving as he scrambles for purchase against the wall – wanting to hold Porthos but unsure if it’s allowed, too afraid to ask. Porthos braces his free hand against the wall – leaning into Aramis’ space but not leaning against him save for their hips. 

They rut against one another like this, moving and desperate – Porthos clenches his eyes shut, bites his lip. Aramis leans in and kisses him, whimpers out, shudders at the feeling of it, dragging and uncertain and he wants to be fucked, but there’s no way to go about it now, no sense in stopping. He grips to Porthos, drags him in close. 

Aramis comes with a shuddering gasp, sudden and shaking through him – too much like his first time, too desperate and too quick. There was so much he wanted, so much he needed – and now. And now—

Aramis stares up at the sky, trying to steady his breathing. He closes his eyes against the sun’s heat, tries not to think of Isabelle, how disgusted she’d be now, and tries not to cry. His eyes go glassy, though, he can feel the tears at his eyelashes. He breathes out a shuddering breath. 

“I miss her,” he says, before he can stop himself. He’s breathless with pain, with pleasure. He can’t breathe at all. 

The hand on his shoulder is strangely comforting, both intimate but distant. When he opens his eyes, wipes at his eyes shamefully, Porthos is considering him. 

“Sorry,” Aramis whispers. 

“It’s okay,” Porthos says, voice quiet, not pitying. Just understanding. Aramis doesn’t try to ask him who he misses. 

Aramis breathes out shakily, touches Porthos’ cock, and strokes him off until Porthos comes, too, the ropes of come across his fingers, on his cloak. He gasps out, and Porthos ducks his head and pants against his shoulder. Aramis wipes desperately at his eyes with his free hand, tries to steady his breathing. He is shaking all over. 

When they settle, long enough to draw back and look at one another, Porthos looks at him, looks at the way that Aramis is shaking apart.

He says, not unkindly, “This isn’t good for you.” 

Aramis shakes his head, almost protests, doesn’t know why he’s protesting. 

“You shouldn’t come back here again,” Porthos tells him and Aramis ignores the stabbing of guilt, of pain, of rejection.

“Why not?” Aramis asks. Porthos’ hands are on his belt, tucking him back into his trousers and doing it back up again for him – and it feels too much like servitude. Aramis feels as if he’s going to be sick. 

Porthos says, not unkindly, “There’s nothing for you here.” 

“But… But what about you?” Aramis asks, which is a ridiculous thing to say for a person he hardly knows at all. And yet he does—

“I’m leaving this place soon,” Porthos tells him, looking around. 

“Really?”

“I hate it here,” Porthos says, quieter. “I hate it. I want to leave.” 

“Where will you go?” Aramis whispers, heart in his throat. Hit, so suddenly, by a longing – always wanting the people who go away. 

“Dunno,” Porthos admits. “Travel around? I can make use of myself somewhere, I bet.” 

“You should write to me,” Aramis says before he can think better of it, then flinches. 

But Porthos looks at him, for a moment – doesn’t look insulted and doesn’t look at Aramis like he’s an idiot. Instead, he gives him a shy little smile and says, “Yeah, alright. I’ll tell you all about it.” 

Both of them know that Porthos can’t and won’t. 

“I look forward to it,” Aramis says, helplessly. 

Porthos looks at him, then crowds into his space, leans up, and kisses him. Aramis breathes out and kisses him back – touches at Porthos’ cheek, traces his thumb at his cheekbone. It is fumbling and uncertain, the scrape of hair against his cheek, the gentle fuzz on Porthos’ cheeks, is a foreign feeling – but pleasant, weighted. He breathes out a small, pleased sigh, kisses Porthos more. 

They end up rutting against each other again, young and uncertain, hands fumbling, kisses biting. Porthos comes first with a muffled moan against Aramis’ mouth, pressing hard against him. He strokes Aramis off one last time and Aramis shudders out a small, pleased cry, gripping Porthos tight. 

They breathe in each other’s space after that, Aramis almost doing the unforgiveable and dropping their foreheads together. Instead, Porthos nuzzles against his shoulder, his breathing damp and heavy against the curve of Aramis’ neck. Aramis holds him tight – finds that he doesn’t want to let go. 

And once Aramis leaves the Court, he realizes his money is gone. 

Years later, when he meets Porthos again, the both of them musketeers, Porthos will pay him back for the theft by buying him a few drinks. They’ll laugh, they’ll talk – they’ll map out how the both of them have changed over those years. Aramis will note Porthos’ gentle eyes, no longer quite so sad. Porthos will mention Aramis’ smile, more genuine now. 

Until that moment so many years in the future, Aramis is left a heartbroken mess in that back alley. He stumbles his way home, the longing increasing only tenfold, for all the things he can never have again.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason.


End file.
